Call of the Trumpet (19 page)

Matthew grinned, and Haddal grinned back, exposing his age-stained teeth amid the bristle of his beard. They exchanged formal greetings, then embraced.

“It has been a long time, old friend,” Haddal said genially. “Come into my tent and tell me how you have spent it.”

Matthew was not fooled. Haddal undoubtedly knew everything he had done since last they met. Chuckling under his breath, he followed his host into the large tent and settled himself comfortably on the colorful, richly woven carpet. Then the humorous mood abruptly departed. Suddenly, unaccountably, he did not wish to discuss what was foremost on both their minds. He made a show of looking about himself.

“Where are your wives?” Matthew inquired casually. “They’re usually here to greet me.”

“Yes, and buzz about you like flies on a newly slaughtered lamb.” Haddal made a gesture of dismissal. “So I sent them away until we had a chance to talk. There is much to talk about, you know. My … foster daughter, for instance.”

Matthew swallowed. “Desert rumor has wings, I see.”

“Especially when all birds fly this way,” Haddal laughed. “Ah, Matthew, my friend. It is indeed good to see you, and we have many things to talk about. So let us dispense with business, eh? Tell me about this … Al Dhiba bint Sada.”

There was no help for it. With a sigh, Matthew began his tale, starting with the letter Cecile had written to him from France, and his trip to Bayrut to meet her. When he had finished, he noticed Haddal smiling.

“Quite a story,” Haddal nodded. “The woman is indeed a prize. Stolen from the caliph’s harem … ha! Well done, old friend. It increases her value, you know. I shall have no trouble at all proceeding with my plan.”

Matthew looked up sharply. “What do you mean? What plan?”

“Why, the plan to find her a husband, of course. Does this not seem wise? And practical?”

Matthew fought to control a surge of anger. “She’s well past marriageable age,” he found himself saying. “And her temper is … rather easily roused.”

“Shortcomings which will be overlooked when the size of her dowry is revealed.” Haddal clasped his hands over his belly and chuckled. “Yes, it will be easy, I think, to find this daughter a husband, a powerful one. It is my duty, is it not?”

Matthew’s spine stiffened. “Risking offense … old friend … I would suggest your duty is to give her what is rightfully hers and allow her to make up her own mind what she wishes to do.”

Was this an insult? Haddal bridled. “I do not think this is for you to say,” he replied, a frown forming between his shaggy brows. “I thank you for bringing my foster child to me, but now your part in the matter is ended. I will deal with the woman as I see fit.”

There was nothing more to say. Matthew realized he had gone too far, and for what? What could he do, after all?

The idea struck him with the force of a blow, making his senses reel. Why hadn’t he thought of it before? It was, he realized with increasing amazement, what he had wanted all along, nearly from the first moment he had seen her. What had taken him so long to realize it?

But did
she
want
him?
Would she say yes? There had been moments lately when he thought she might …

“Matthew? Are you listening to me?”

“What?” He shook his head. “I’m sorry.”

“I asked you to send your servant to fetch the girl,” Haddal repeated, irritated. “I would see her now.”

Cecile trembled as she hastily changed into the new
towb
and
makruna.
She replaited her hair, donned the short, embroidered jacket, and adjusted her veil. She was ready. “I must go now,” she said to Hagar. “The shaikh awaits me.”

“Then go,” Hagar tersely advised, aware of her own nervousness. “Remember to be polite!”

Cecile followed Ahmed as he led the way to Haddal’s tent. The pounding of her heart accelerated when she saw its size, and she felt very small and insignificant. She clutched at the velvet pouch concealed inside her bodice.

She had come so far, been through so much. She could not let her courage fail her now. This was her destiny, the one her father had prepared for her so long ago. Ahmed gestured, and Cecile entered the tent.

The old shaikh sat with his back to his saddle, fingers laced across his middle. His expression was inscrutable.

Cecile gratefully sank to her knees and lowered her gaze. She clasped her hands to hide their trembling.

Haddal stroked his beard. What could be seen of the girl was lovely, he thought. And she did not look her age, not nearly. Could it really have been all of twenty years ago that Villier had come to him with the babe in his arms? He cast a sidelong glance at Matthew. “She is comely, my friend. And from what I hear, the name you have given her suits her.”

“She earned the name honorably.”

Haddal nodded. Gripping his beard, he continued to eye the girl who knelt before him.

Cecile chewed at her lip, glad of the veil. She wasn’t sure what she had expected, what kind of a greeting she had hoped to receive, but it certainly wasn’t this. Why, they talked about her as if she wasn’t even there!

Matthew, too, was uncomfortable. He looked at Haddal, then at Cecile, and felt his temper rise once more. It was custom, he knew, to treat women in such a fashion, but he didn’t feel very kindly toward custom right at the moment. He cleared his throat … loudly.

Annoyed, Haddal glanced in Matthew’s direction. “Is there something you wish to say, friend?”

Was there? Was this the moment? Cecile looked up at him, a plea in her eyes, and he felt his heart begin to hammer. “I, uh, I’ve been thinking on your … plans … for your foster child. I wonder if you would give me leave to … to discuss them with her. Privately.”

Haddal scowled. “I have made my decision, and I do not see what good such conversation will do.”

Cecile’s eyes widened. What plans? What were they talking about? Why had she no part in whatever was going on? Not daring to turn her furious gaze on the shaikh, she glared at Matthew instead. How dare he discuss her like this?

But Matthew appeared lost in his own thoughts and didn’t notice her regard. She watched as he pulled at his chin, a now-familiar gesture, and felt her temper rise. It was as if she was no more than a mare, to be examined and haggled over. What was he thinking, sitting there rasping at the bristle on his chin like a mindless fool?

Haddal, too, wondered, rapidly losing patience. This should have been a simple matter, dealt with quickly and efficiently. The girl was comely and had a large dowry. He would marry her off as soon as possible. Why was Matthew causing difficulty?

Before he could speak, however, and settle the issue once and for all, a shadow loomed at the tent flap. Annoyance mounting, Haddal looked up to see Rashid formally bowing his greetings.

“I do not mean to intrude,” he said with patently false apology. “But I heard El Faris had come to your tent, and I wished to convey my welcome.”

Haddal bit back the words on the tip of his tongue and grimaced. “Very well,” he said brusquely. “You may enter my tent. And you may go, woman.”

Woman! Cecile pushed crisply to her feet and stood stiffly erect. Cheeks aflame, she turned sharply on her heel. A hand caught her wrist.

“Wait!”

All eyes turned to Rashid, who moistened his lips as he gazed down at Cecile. “I wish to know who this woman is,” he said. “Will you not introduce us, Haddal?”

The old shaikh grunted. “She is my foster daughter. Al Dhiba bint Sada. And …”

“And I,” Rashid interrupted, gaze riveted upon the beguilingly wide, dark eyes staring up at him, “I am Haled eben Rashid, Shaikh of the Shammar peoples and friend to the Rwalan.”

Suddenly frightened, for no reason she could name, Cecile glanced at the two men still seated. Though Matthew’s expression remained unreadable, a slowly spreading smile creased Haddal’s broad features. Her heart rose in her throat. What was going on? And why would this man who called himself a shaikh not release her hand?

Panicked, not caring any longer what was proper, Cecile tugged and, with a chuckle, Rashid let her go. She fled, scurrying from the tent as fast as she could, the sound of laughter echoing in her wake.

Aza watched from her post, pressed to the wall of a nearby tent. She saw the girl, Al Dhiba as they called her, enter the shaikh’s tent. A tiny, but nonetheless ignoble, spark of jealousy burned in her breast when she saw the girl’s beauty. She banished the emotion swiftly, however. Al Dhiba had merely traveled with El Faris, nothing more. If there had been more, they would have been wed by now. Such was the way of the desert.

Though she had strained to listen, Aza heard no words. Then she saw Shaikh Rashid approach. She ducked behind the tent.

The girl came out soon after, running. Aza heard laughter and wondered what could have happened. She edged closer to Haddal’s tent.

There was a murmur of conversation. From their tone, the two shaikhs sounded agreeable about something. Then there was a flurry of words and a voice raised in anger. His! Once again Aza shrank away.

No matter. She would soothe his heart. All she needed was the chance. And she knew exactly what she had to do. Picking up the hem of her skirt, Aza turned and ran back to her father’s tent.

A
LIGHT AFTERNOON BREEZE HAD SPRUNG UP
, whispering through the palms, setting the tent flap astir. It provided some relief from the 110-plus-degree heat, but Matthew did not notice. He paced, boot heels silent on the carpeted ground. Ahmed, leery of his master’s mood, had long since slunk away, but Matthew had not heeded his going. His thoughts were in turmoil. Rashid’s oily features and leering grin haunted him.

“So, that is your foster daughter,” he had said when his laughter had abated. “Well, no wonder she was destined for the royal harem. What a prize!”

Matthew had had difficulty controlling himself, particularly in light of Haddal’s obvious agreement with Rashid. But there had been nothing he could say without giving offense.

Rashid had continued to chuckle lewdly. “A prize for a shaikh perhaps, if not a caliph.”

Sensing danger, Matthew opened his mouth to speak. The time to ask for Al Dhiba’s hand, he realized, was now or never. But Haddal had been too quick for him.

“This is my thought also, Rashid. Such a treasure might be more than ample compensation for any recent losses … mightn’t it?”

Rashid’s small, close-set eyes had glittered. “Indeed. Indeed, O mighty Shaikh.”

With a muttered curse, Matthew kicked at the corner of his carpet, sending a spray of sand across the clean maroon surface. He had been powerless to intervene in the situation. Dhiba’s marriage to Rashid would solve too many problems for Haddal, getting the man off his back and making a powerful ally at the same time. So it had been settled.

Matthew drew a deep breath. If only he hadn’t been so damned stubborn, the issue might have been settled long ago, and with quite a different conclusion. Furthermore, he knew now, with dread and deadly certainty, that it was what he had always wanted. Now it was too late.

Or was it?

He could not simply take her and flee. Not only would escape be nearly impossible, he would lose forever his standing among the desert peoples. Al Dhiba could expect a far worse fate.

The hammering of Matthew’s heart recommenced. There was one other possibility, if he moved quickly enough. He was a powerful man in his own right. No one, not even Haddal, would dare take action against him once his plan was a
fait accompli.
Rashid would be furious, of course, but he would be able to do nothing once the marriage was completed. Matthew smiled. Yes, it was what he would do, what he
had
to do.

Matthew paused at the tent flap, overcome with uncharacteristic reservations. How would Al Dhiba react? Did she want him as much as he wanted her? Would she want him as her husband?

There was only one way to find out.

Hagar looked up, surprised by the abrupt appearance of El Faris at her tent flap. “Where is Al Dhiba?” he demanded curtly.

Hagar’s eyes crinkled. “She has gone to the water to bathe,” she replied calmly. “But if you wish to speak with her, I will fetch the girl.”